


Pretend to Be Nice

by MoonlitMusings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, POV First Person, Sherlolly - Freeform, Yeah it's a songfic, mostly angst, that was still big when i wrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlitMusings/pseuds/MoonlitMusings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he could just pretend to be nice, it would make things so much easier.<br/>Inspired by the song from Josie and the Pussycats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretend to Be Nice

“Hello Molly,” he says as he breezes through the door, his coat billowing behind him like a cape. “I require three sets of eyes, one green, one blue, and one brown. The more fresh the better.” I take a deep breath and turn to face him more directly. He looks at me and stops, eyes narrowing a bit, taking in every detail of my appearance.  
I had been feeling particularly brave when I got up. Probably because I had spent the night before watching a marathon of romantic comedies where the clumsy, shy girl always ended up with the perfect guy. So, I decided that I would dress up a bit and try to be more assertive towards him. I would ask him out again, and this time I would not take the same brush-off answer as last time with the coffee. But now, under his intense gaze, I can feel him picking apart every detail of my blouse and form-fitting jeans, as well as my hair which I had swept into a loose, fairly casual up-do, different from my usual ponytail. And as he gazed and deduced, I felt all of the strength from this morning draining out of my body, because I knew what was coming next. It would be the Christmas party all over again. And sure enough, when he parted his beautiful lips to speak, the words that came out stung like daggers.

“Molly, you really should try harder in your attempts to dress up. That green blouse does nothing for your skin tone, makes you look a little ill actually, and your matching eye shadow, though lighter, really isn’t helping. It’s quite obvious from the way you’re wobbling, even while standing still, that you are not at all used to heels that high. Try sticking to flats. Your lipstick doesn’t match anything else you’re wearing, and if you insist on trying to darken your complexion, I would suggest doing a more thorough job of cleaning the excess product off of your hands.”

I just stood there, feeling hopeless and defeated, trying to keep the tears that were welling up in my eyes from spilling over. He simply looks away, as though nothing had just happened.

“So, about those eyes…”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“I said, get out. No, you cannot have the eyes. What you can do, is get out of my morgue.”

“Why?” he asks, looking back towards me and seeing for the first time the few stray tears that had sneaked out and were slowly working their way down my cheeks. As his expression changes from confused irritation to something unreadable, John bursts through the doors.

“Sherlock! I told you to wait! You really couldn’t have had the cab wait two minutes while I ran back up to get my…” He stops as he sees me hastily wipe away my tears and his look softens, before he turns to glare at Sherlock. “Oh god. What have you done this time?”

“It’s fine John,” I say, surprising him. “He was just leaving.”

“Molly, I…”

“I said, you were just leaving.” John places a comforting hand on my shoulder and gives me a sympathetic look before walking out. Sherlock turns to follow him, but just as he places his hand on the door, he turns and quietly says,

“I’m sorry.” He exits the room, leaving me in silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m bored.”

“I know. You’ve been bored for the past week.”

“That’s because I have nothing to do!”

He’s been living with me for about a month now, ever since the fall, and I’ve realized that despite looking like a man, Sherlock Holmes tends to act more like a five year-old child. I’ve also gotten much better about standing my ground around him.

“We could play Cluedo again,” I suggest with a smirk.

“Don’t make jokes Molly,” he says. I sigh.

“Well Sherlock, I don’t know what to do. It’s too soon for you to go out, my neighbors would get suspicious if they suddenly started hearing someone playing the violin in my flat, and I am not bringing you more body parts anytime soon after the mess you made in the kitchen with those arms.”

“I told you I would clean it up.”

“And then you never did. I spend all day cleaning up dead bodies Sherlock. I don’t need to do the same at home as well.”

“But I’m so bored!” he exclaims as he dramatically throws his arm over his eyes.

“Well then, figure out something non-destructive to do to keep yourself occupied. I’m going out.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe my friend Mary’s. I’m just tired of listening to a grown man whine like a child.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“If you’re trying to impress a date, I would suggest wearing a different dress. That one does nothing for your figure, or complexion. Try something more form-fitting in a warmer color.”

I really should have known better. Expecting him to be even a little pleasant once in a while just because I helped him fake his death, save those closest to him, and gave him a place to stay and food to eat was really too much to ask.

“Sherlock, have you ever considered just being nice to me for a change?”

“What?” he asked with a confused look.

“Have you ever considered just being nice instead of criticizing me constantly? You know, instead of picking apart the imperfections in this outfit I spent half an hour picking out, you could have just not said anything. Or, better yet, maybe say “Nice dress Molly,” or “Gee Molly, you look lovely tonight.”"

“But what’s the point of being nice when it’s not honest? Would you rather me lie to you and say you look good when I know for a fact you can look much better?”

“Honestly, yes. Yes I would. Maybe not all the time, but every once in a while, for the sake of my sanity, please just pretend.”

He looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

“I’ll consider it,” he says finally, looking back to the paper he was reading. “Though I still think you should put on a different dress. Perhaps that nice light orange one with your dark brown coat. It would suit you much better.”

“I’ll consider it,” I mock as I roll my eyes and walk back into my room. Just out of curiosity, I pull on the dress and coat he suggested and looked in the mirror. I look fantastic. “Dammit. Bloody git. Always has to be right."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I almost scream when I walk into my living room and see what appears to be a homeless man sleeping soundly on my couch, shortly after having got out of bed. However, I quickly realize that this particular raggedy-looking figure is very tall, very trim, and has a mop of curly hair. Although, it seems he changed it from his normal dark color to more of a light ginger. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, loose ripped jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a patch-covered coat, all covered in a fine layer of dirt. I can see a few cuts and scrapes on his face and hands. I can only imagine what injuries I can’t see. All in all, he looks like hell.

I really wish he could stop doing this. I know he has to find all of Jim’s- I mean, Moriarty’s men, but I wish he didn’t have to be in so much danger. I’d never tell him so, but it kills me to see him like this. He doesn’t ever tell me what he’s doing or where he’s going, when he’s leaving or when he thinks he’ll be back, he just comes and goes, replacing wounds with bandages, and getting rest and food before leaving once more.

Sometimes I’ll wake up to him on my bed instead of the couch. Curled up next to me, above the blankets, arm around me, looking more peaceful and calm than I’ve ever seen him. Those are the moments I treasure and hold onto. Those are what give me hope. Not simply that he’ll be ok, I’m sure he will be. But hope that when this is all done, when Moriarty’s men are gone and Sherlock is revealed to be alive and everything goes back to normal, that things won’t be exactly like they were before. That maybe, just maybe, he feels more than he lets on.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was literally the first fic I ever published and I just finally got around to re-posting it here from ff. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
